“It’s safe.”
“Glad to know I don’t have to worry about anything dangerous getting in.”
She might not have to worry, but I do. Because with Miller Montgomery, my coach’s daughter, standing in my kitchen looking like that, I’m afraid something very dangerous has already gotten in.
These seats are the fucking worst.
Before I signed my contract last year, I should’ve amended that the bullpen needed more comfortable chairs. Eight and a half innings and my ass is numb as I wait and watch for my team to pull out the W at home.
Isaiah is playing his ass off. His defense is tight and locked in. He hit a two-run homer in the fourth and another double in the seventh, bringing in a run and giving the Warriors a comfortable lead. I was going to invite him over after the game to have one of those beers that may or may not still be in my fridge, but with how well he’s doing, Mr. Popular is about to get a whole lot of attention he’s not going to want to pass up.
It’s not that I’m not a team player, but I hate bullpen days. Besides my forty pitches thrown to get my arm loose and active between my starts this week, I don’t do anything here other than watch.
We sit somewhere off the foul line for the entirety of the game when I could be sitting at home, spending time with my son. This is where it gets hard for me. On my starting nights, I can justify the time away, but nights like these, I wish Max were here too.
With my hat in my hands, I absentmindedly run my thumb over Max’s picture. It’s a habit, but also a good reminder when work becomes too much, none of it really matters. He does.
I love the game, I really do, but I love my son a whole lot more and I don’t know how to find that balance.
Maybe if his mom hadn’t left him the way she did I’d be handling all of this a whole lot better. I’d be more hands-off perhaps. But most of the time I feel like I need to overcompensate, to be both parents and just hope that Max doesn’t notice the gaps.
“Ace.” One of our relief pitchers pats me on the back. “I like this no-work thing. You think you can go another eight innings on your next start?”
Chuckling, I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms. “I’ll try my best.”
Taking a seat next to me, he offers me a bit of his chew, but I decline, holding up my seeds instead.
“Your brother is going to be insufferable after tonight.”
“God,” I exhale. “Tell me about it.”
And right on cue, post-game in the training room with the music blaring, my little brother waltzes in like the arrogant fucker that he is.
Isaiah slowly unbuttons his uniform to the song, the jersey with his number nineteen falling to his still cleated feet. “I’m here, baby!”
Lying back on a training table as I get my shoulder rubbed out, I watch, trying my best not to laugh. But it’s pretty difficult not to when he’s got the whole room on his side, cheering him on as he strips down to the music, high from our win and his personal game.
“Rhodes, you’re on my table tonight,” Kennedy, one of the trainers, says. “I’m rubbing you down.”
Isaiah stops middance, his eyes going wide with excitement because well, he’s in love with Kennedy.
“Kenny . . . are you serious?” He follows her to her table like a love sick puppy dog.
“Yep. Strip down and hop up.”
My brother’s attention darts to me, his mouth hanging open but smiling at the same time. Kennedy rarely volunteers to work on Isaiah because the kid can be a colossal pain in the ass.
Looking at me, he points to her then to himself as if she has no idea how obsessed he is with her.
I can’t help but laugh at him from across the room, but then my doctor’s thumb digs into my rotator cuff and wipes my smile right off my face.
“Is this part of my reward for having a good game?” Isaiah asks Kennedy as he strips down to nothing, his cup clattering to the floor. “Just how much are we talking here with this rub down?”
“Jesus, Rhodes.” Kennedy turns away from him as quickly as possible, covering her eyes. “Leave your goddamn compression shorts on. This isn’t that kind of massage.” She peeks over to me. “Ace, what the hell is wrong with your brother?”
“I wish I knew, Ken.”
Isaiah uses both hands to quickly cover his dick while standing bare-ass naked next to Kennedy’s training table. “Well, you said to strip down and I got excited.”
I motion to what he’s covering. “Clearly.”